


Bite My Lip And Close My Eyes

by reluctantabandon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester/OFC - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Smut, but it's just in a daydream I swear, if ya squint, just read it okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctantabandon/pseuds/reluctantabandon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welp, barn door’s open, Winchester. Might as well ride that fuckin’ horse straight to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bite My Lip And Close My Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime during or post Season 8. You can pick the timing. ;)  
> Title from “Longview” by Green Day.

Dean lay flat on his back on his bed, a towel draped over his hips. HIS bed. The first adult bed he’d ever had, in his room at the Bunker, the first real bedroom — with an _actual lock_ on the door — that he’d had since Mom died. He could barely remember the room of his childhood, just a vague idea of blue walls and a picture of Mom and Dad on the dark blue bookshelf. His room now was solid around him, the reassuring shapes of weapons standing out in the dim light of his bedside lamp.

He liked to lie here, like this, still damp from the shower, looking up at the distant ceiling. It wasn’t often that he had time to do this, just lie naked and enjoy the feeling of personal space. The door was locked, so Sam couldn’t come barging in. It was a little weird to be in the same living space with Sam and not see him for hours on end — they had spent so much time in such close quarters, they were still a little uneasy with being too far apart, and had sought each other out constantly the first few weeks at the Bunker. Now, though, the feeling of ownership, of belonging, was really settling in, and Dean let his smile stretch a little wider. He put one hand behind his head, feeling the give of the memory foam mattress (still the best hundred bucks he’d ever spent), smelling the clean scent of fresh, new sheets and blankets, giving in to the little bubble of happiness he felt in his chest. He gave a little sigh of contentment and squirmed a little. The towel shifted over his skin, a soft and pleasant sensation, and he dragged it further, dropping it to the floor.

His cock stirred with interest and Dean palmed himself almost absentmindedly, not really thinking about anything, just enjoying the freedom of solitude and the relaxation that came with having nowhere to be. Sam was in the Library, sneezing his ass off every time he opened one of the huge dusty volumes that drew him like a magnet. He was bound to be in there for another couple of hours, and there weren’t any cases on — this week had been pretty dull. It was nice to have a little time to settle in, really get to know the place. They kept finding new corners and odd nooks and weirdly placed doors. It was endlessly fascinating.

Right now, though, Dean wasn’t thinking about how cool the whole crazy place was — he was starting to think about the last girl he’d been with, ages ago now, and how soft her skin had felt under his hands. He thought about the way she’d laughed, full and throaty, and tipped her head back to down a shot of tequila, how the tequila and lime and salt had tasted sharp and good on her tongue when he’d kissed her. They’d gone back to her motel room, Dean giving Sam a wink and a wave as he left the bar; Sam had shaken his head, given him a little bitchface, but Dean had just laughed and walked out and shoved down any uneasiness he may have felt about taking this girl to bed. She was tall, pretty, dark brown hair and slate blue eyes, with a bangin’ body that was curvy and very, very flexible. Dean fisted his cock as he daydreamed, lazily remembering the way the girl (Rebecca? Rachel?) had pushed him down on her bed, climbing on top of him as she whipped off her tank top and wiggled out of her short black skirt. Her breasts were small and pointed, and Dean had grabbed for them eagerly, feeling her nipples harden as he stroked them, licked and sucked them until they were pink and wet. She had loved it, moaning and wriggling, grinding down onto his dick through his jeans. The sex had been a little perfunctory after that, though at least they’d both gotten off — it didn’t take long for Dean to have her screaming under him, and he’d chased his own orgasm after she’d come twice. He hadn’t lingered after that, and she’d smiled and swatted him on the ass as he left with a grin, not looking back.

He tried to remember the way she’d felt, her hands touching his cock, stroking, the way she’d tightened around him as she came. For some reason his mind kept coming back to Sam’s bitchface in the bar, how he’d almost looked surprised and definitely a little pissed. Dean shook his head and gripped a little tighter, rolling over to reach the bottle of lube in his night table drawer. The pop of the cap seemed louder than usual, and he tightened his lips as he tried to hold on to the image of the girl grinding on top of him, moving under him. It was easier once he’d lubed up his dick, the slick coolness making him grimace but soon warming under his steady hand, making his shoulders loosen and his lips part a little at the relief. He concentrated on the feel of his hand, imagining fingers a bit smaller than his own, night-dark hair and deep blue eyes…no, the _girl_ , Dean, the _girl_. He growled a little as he tried to banish the stray beguiling thought, eyes widening as he realized what — or rather, _who_ — had strayed into his fantasy. Again.

This time — and no, it wasn’t even close to the first time, although Dean was _real_ good at avoiding thinking about that, too — this time, it was too fucking much. Dean swore under his breath and moved his hand from his dick, unwilling to continue although he was hard as a rock and aching.

“Dammit, dammit, _dammit,_ ” he swore. Fucking Cas. He winced as he had _that_ thought — he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Cas while he was whacking off, and especially not associating him with fucking. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut at the sudden visual his treacherous mind supplied — Cas face down beneath him, head turned back to Dean, eyes closed — his back arched and sweating, his pale skin luminous in the light of Dean’s lamp as Dean gripped his hips and pounded into him, mouthing the skin of his back, his neck, tasting salt, hearing him growl Dean’s name—

Dean shouted and leaped out of bed, hurling his pillow viciously across the room, kicking the towel as he strode over it. He put his hands to his head — his double-crossing, underhanded, betraying head, which had just made him face what he’d been successfully denying for a long-ass time, thank you very much. God _damn_ it. He _wanted_ Castiel.

Four years’ worth of knowing the angel came to him in a crashing wave of overlapping images, suffused with a longing so fierce it took Dean’s breath. All those looks, those lingering touches, the glances that turned into staring matches between them until one of them looked away — Dean pushed a hand through his hair, dumbstruck. Well, shit.

It wasn’t even as if he was having a sexual identity crisis. Dean had always known he was attracted to guys — he just tended to like women better, and it sure was easier to pick up a woman than it was to venture into unknown territory in every small town or neighborhood they visited. Even so, he’d gotten into his share of fights about it. Parts didn’t matter to him, as long as the other person held his interest. He’d even said it to Cas, that time in the “den of iniquity” — warm and willing is what counted. You take your pleasure where you can, because you just never know. Last night on earth, and all that.

But Castiel was an _angel_. He wasn’t even _human_ , not even marginally the same _species_ , even occupying his vessel as he did. He was so far above Dean that it was laughable to even think of him as an object of lust. Sure, there’d been that one time with Anna — Anael — but that was before she’d _really_ been an angel. Wasn’t it? Or was he trying to justify his own cowardice?

He was afraid. He had so much to lose. This wasn’t something that he could take lightly — not just one night. He couldn’t treat Castiel like any other random conquest. He liked and respected the angel immensely — he thought of him almost as a brother. Almost family. Family who had lied and betrayed and hid things, but to Dean, that felt normal. It was always so tempting to try to act like a regular guy, but Dean knew that was a cop-out, too. You can’t live a life hidden from the world, full of lies, betrayal, secrets, and obfuscation, and blame others when they do the same thing in the name of protecting you. Wouldn’t be right.

So he stood there naked in his room with a waning hard-on for his best friend. What the fuck was he gonna do now?

Okay, options. Option one: keep thinking about the girl, whack off, get it over with. Option two: try not to think about ANYTHING, whack off, get it over with. Option three: just fucking go to bed and lie there til he went to sleep, hard on be damned.

Option four…

Dean bit his lip and looked around as if someone could see. Just for one second, one tiny second, he let himself think about Castiel, spread out beneath him like a decadent feast, lips parted, eyes open wide, cock hard and red and dripping.

Damn.

He was already fisting his cock; he’d grabbed it again without even thinking about it. Well, his body sure wanted this, even if his mind wasn’t behind it all the way. Fantasy’s just fantasy, right? There were no consequences, no regrets, not if nothing actually happened. Dean knew he was rationalizing at this point — he knew damned well that this wasn’t just oh, hey, let’s see if thinking about this guy will get me off. This was full-fledged lust, and if he was being honest with himself, it had been for a while. And if he was being _really_ honest, it wasn’t simple, uncomplicated lust, either. It was all bound up with family and caring and friendship and let’s not even go near the L-word just yet. Dean backed off from those particular thoughts, but chewed over his predicament.

Should he or shouldn’t he? Would it change things, for him? Between him and Cas? He thought about it, brow furrowed, fist still absently working his cock. The revelation of his feelings — obvious though it was in hindsight — would make him feel a little awkward around Cas at first, at least in his mind. He thought the discomfort wouldn’t last long, comfortable as they were with one another, although he didn’t trust himself not to blush if Cas gave him one of those long, blue looks.

Dean sighed in frustration. Fuck it. He was just going to whack off and try not to think about anything, and if inappropriate angel thoughts should come a-calling, well, he’d just...roll with it.

He threw himself back on the bed and stared at the ceiling again, dick in hand. His bed softened under him, cradled him in all the right ways, and he thought about the softness of his sheets and the grateful pleasure of privacy. No way could he have had this conversation with himself in a dingy motel room, Sammy just a coffee run away, or worse yet, sleeping in the next bed. The fleeting thought of that blue-eyed girl crossed his mind again (Rachel? Rebecca?) but failed to stick, and yes, there it was, another pair of blue eyes, luminous and haunted, and his insides liquefied in a hot rush. Oh, he was a goner.

Welp, barn door’s open, Winchester. Might as well ride that fuckin’ horse straight to hell.

Cas. Castiel. Cas appearing in the barn, eyes blazing, lights spitting as huge wings loomed crazily. Cas and his wide eyes, uncomprehending as Dean shouted. Cas and his little smile when he used the right slang. Cas saying “I did it — all of it — for _you_.” Cas, so sincere, so beautiful, so untouchable — Dean was panting now, and he dared to let himself think of touching.

Cas, walking into his room, sitting on his bed. Cas, lifting a hand to touch Dean’s face, lips parted. Cas, kissing Cas, mouth opening under Dean’s, a slide of hesitant tongue. Cas, his face angles and planes and shadows, looking under his eyelashes at Dean as he lay on the bed, stroking himself. Cas — God — Castiel, panting as Dean flicked his tongue over his hole, slid one finger slowly inside, Castiel crying out as Dean fucked him slowly, face to face —

“Castiel!” The sound tore out of him, unexpected, and Dean arched through the waves of his pleasure, heels digging into the mattress, his free hand gripping the pillow next to his head.

He had the brief but terrifying thought that Cas would think his cry was a prayer and suddenly appear at the foot of his bed, brow furrowed, head tilted. _Fuck_. He didn’t know whether to grab his towel or lie there with his legs spread and his own come all over him, wanton, but his panic subsided slightly when no angel appeared.

It came back full-force, however, when he realized that fantasizing about his angel had made him come harder than he had in years.

Son of a _bitch_.

**Author's Note:**

> Completely unbeta'ed. Thanks go to Kryptaria and Winter_of_our_Discontent, however, for convincing me to give Supernatural a try. Thanks, my lovelies, and I'll see you in Hell.
> 
> I THINK this is a one-off, but you never know...if Dean makes pokey-noises in my head, we may continue.


End file.
